Intoxicated, Part I
by by-nina
Summary: It isn't exactly what she wants, but there probably isn't another time or place that will let her ask these questions without fearing the answers she will give herself. Day 2 - Pining for Royai Week 2018. (Warnings for alcohol, drinking, and a panic attack.)


Caretaker, designated driver, amused observer. Riza has mastered playing all of these roles on nights out in town with her team, nights which often end with her being the only one left sober. It isn't that she's never had alcohol, but she isn't interested enough to have more than a bottle when she does drink.

Riza is more interested in the kind of honesty alcohol brings out in other people. It is both comforting and melancholy for someone like her, someone so heavily guarded due to the sins of her past and the burdens of her present. She cannot afford this same kind of honesty, Riza tells herself, so she contents herself with safely finding it in her companions.

Roy Mustang is another story. She is perplexed by the ease with which he allows himself to get drunk (which, granted, doesn't take much at all) and bare himself, despite how closely intertwined their lives and their burdens have been. It plays out like a fascinating game in which she looks past the man in the present for the boy throughout her younger years. Riza recognizes parts of him this way; his casual charm, his sincere affection, his fiery hope beneath a pragmatic façade. There is a certain warmth—and some frustration—in reconciling what she knows of him and what he allows everyone else to know with his guard down.

She likes the game more than she would dare admit.

* * *

"Lieutenant! There's a new place downtown the colonel wants to check out tonight, you coming with us?"

She briefly freezes. There is a dull ache where curiosity usually accompanies the thought of her little game, which, appropriately enough, hungrily comes to the forefront of her mind again. But this time, Riza knows the risks she is taking. A night teasing her with her own growing urge to confront her own honesty cannot end well.

She smiles sadly at Havoc, who hovers by her desk. "Sorry, Havoc, but I'll have to pass."

"Aww, come on!" Havoc playfully slaps her shoulder. "We're gonna miss you, Lieutenant!"

"I think you men will survive just fine without me for one night." She finishes gathering the last of her things, then slings her bag over her shoulder as she stands. From the corner of her eye, she catches Roy as he comes around from his desk, throwing his black coat lazily around his shoulders, and the dull ache persists. Unprompted, she adds, "I have other plans."

Havoc blinks. "Oh. Well, see you around!"

Riza simply raises a hand, waving goodbye at her team. She doesn't look back as she strides down the hallways and all the way to her car. She drives home with an unusual focus, and she doesn't stop to think as she breezes into her apartment, prepares Black Hayate's dinner, then changes into her house clothes. Then, almost robotically, she occupies herself with tidying the apartment, scrubbing away at already spotless surfaces with unnecessary rigor.

 _Some plans I've got._

When she finally slows down and allows herself to think, it's half past eleven, and her mind catches up with her fast as she plops down on her couch. Hayate settles his head on her lap; she scratches behind his ears absentmindedly. She should know better, deal with whatever she feels like a mature adult, but years of putting her walls up even around most of the people she trusts have left her guarded even from herself. At the moment, it's difficult to tell what the consequences will be, or what her feelings for one person should even mean in the context of everything else. The cracks are showing in the walls, and her instincts beg her to turn away—to run, if she has to.

Riza remembers a large bottle of vodka that has remained untouched in her cupboard since Rebecca gave it to her two birthdays ago. Her face scrunches up at the thought, but she finds her curiosity winning out once again, encouraged by the silence of her near-empty apartment and the nagging thought of what she would be like if she has more than the usual; she's never gotten drunk in her life. It isn't _exactly_ what she wants, but there probably isn't another time or place that will let her ask these questions without fearing the answers she will give herself.

She sputters at the first gulp, suddenly painfully aware that it isn't like any vodka she's had before, or even any other alcoholic drink she's tried. It's much stronger, and the foreign language on the label makes it difficult to tell where it had come from. Still, Riza knows that Rebecca knows her alcohol, and her best friend would never put her in any danger. Fighting back the burning feeling all over her face and down her insides, Riza pours herself one more shot, then another.

Five shots in, she's leaning over the table, only half-responsive as Hayate sniffs at her and tugs at her clothes with his teeth. Her awareness of the surroundings stays sharp even as she begins to dissociate from the rest of her body. She feels the redness of her face and the tingling in her limbs, but she fights to keep herself awake and in control.

Ten shots in, she's infuriated at how clear her mind still is. She cannot say the same for her body, however; she can feel the effects of the alcohol now, from the throbbing in her chest up to the tightness in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. _This was_ not _a good idea._

She gets up and she's swaying on her feet, so she stumbles towards her bedroom, catching herself by the doorknob with trembling hands when she nearly falls over. The irony of her getting drunk tonight of all nights, when she had steeled herself away from a drinking session and anyone who can hear whatever it is she wants to be honest about. Still, what could she be honest about with those closest to her, without fear of what will happen when it's all over? And what could she be honest about with him, when he already knows everything? It seems unbelievable to her that there's still more she wants to say.

Riza makes it to her bed. Its soft warmth does nothing to cushion her dizziness or the same dull ache from earlier that evening inexplicably making its way back into her chest. And then, his fragmented face fades into view in her hazy mind. She feels her hand physically reaching out, as if to keep his face from fading back out, and she finds herself turning in her bed and slamming onto the floor. Somewhere behind her, Hayate scrambles up and around, whimpering in confusion.

"Sorry, Hayate," she calls to him, words stretched and slurred incomprehensibly.

She tries to pick herself back up onto her bed, then realizes that her body no longer responds to her commands.

 _Sorry._

The word echoes in her mind, drowning out her wakefulness and sending pangs through her veins.

 _Sorry._

It grows louder, somehow reaching dark corners of her subconscious that she hasn't acknowledged. A sharp pain shoots through her face, no doubt a direct effect of the alcohol, but perhaps also of something else entirely. She tries to speak; she merely manages a groan. With no one around to hear her, she mumbles her apologies into the floor.

Her naïveté in joining the military. Her relationship with her father. The deadly secrets on her back. The war. Riza apologizes for each one over and over, the pain of each memory overpowering the sting in her eyes and her throat; the ugly truth of what honesty means for her finally hits her with the full force of a truck. She feels it in every inch of her body, washing over her in waves of shame and guilt and disgust, emphasizing every sensation that has overtaken her so far. Each apology is uttered more loudly than the last, but she goes on like she's had it memorized in the back of her mind. She isn't wholly sure if she is crying or not.

Eventually, she notices the pattern of him in every single memory, and the ache in her chest pushes forward. At this point, her brain is too hazy to think anything of it other than be grateful that he is there, something to hold on to in the messy terrain of her past. Her grip is tenuous, and elsewhere it would be selfish and forbidden, but she indulges herself in the absence of her inhibitions.

She whispers Roy's name amid the apologies. She whispers it again, apologizing that he cannot hear her apology. She wonders why she's apologizing to him, before apologizing to herself.

The ache in her chest keeps growing until she's out of breath, and she falls asleep with one last apology on her lips.


End file.
